Sehun stifles awake from his nap lying on the bamboo floor surrounded by hundreds of Matching gifts and bouquets from marriages, fragrances of the flowers mixing with the scent of alcoholic liquid in his home. “Old Man, Old Man,” his regalia calls, flushed from all the wine he has quenched, tugging on his sleeve like a child although in a body of a grown up, he smiles at him while Yixing asks out of curiosity in hopes of learning more about his Master, “do you have a soul mate?”

“Good question,” he replies, ruffling Yixing's hair fondly but relays no certain answer thus the regalia squeaks and prays within himself that he had not harmed his Master.

“Old Man?”

Sehun sits up, arranges his composure to not worry his companion. He responds honestly, “I once thought I had.”

“Once?”

“Forget it,” he dismisses, “we have an important visitor today. We must know our priorities.”

Yixing bows, disregards his attempt and exits the chambers although his Master continues to be despondent despite that he had said the event himself. The regalia peeps from the inside of the shrine then witnesses a commotion unfolding outside: palace guards lined up decked in full armor, locals, a huge crowd trying to have a glimpse at the prestigious carriage centering everyone's attention. From the tiny compartment, a knight opens the door for the highly guest whose hair is styled neatly into a tail through the touch of a lotus ornament, clad in a simple robe of plaid gray prints covering except his right upper body revealing the white apparel he wears underneath while a cyan ribbon ties the outfit together. His long ebony hair sways as he dismounts and steps on the ground taking Yixing's breath away, “The visitor is beautiful,” he says, hollering next, “Come look, Master,” but Sehun treads his way beside his servant already and educates him of the visitor's background.

“He is the Crown Prince of China.”

His regalia turns to him and whispers, “Amazing.”

Sehun crosses his arms with an unreadable expression, “He is the only son, heir to the throne of being Emperor of the Lu Dynasty.”

“Why has he come?”

“Because,” he contemplates, “an Emperor will need an Empress. He needs to hail a consort.”

The Prince skims the area, rendering precise beams and gestures of greeting. He is escorted toward the entrance of the shrine, climbing the stairs while in another carriage an association of women dressed in silky robes, pivoting pastel parasols past their shoulder and masked diversely of animals trail not far from him.

“Yixing,” the god beckons, “the Palace have prayed to me that on this day, we shall host the Matchmaking Ceremony of the royal Prince. They expect an immediate answer to determine who is worthy to be the wife of the Prince and Empress of China.”

“I understand.” The Keeper slides the doors to their abode, “We should not keep them waiting then. Leave it me, Milord.”

The highness' head minister who deems himself, Minseok, arching his torso in respect once face-to-face, “Keeper, I entrust to you that the Prince may find his bride.”

Without a dawdle, Yixing inquires to commence the exercise. “May I have the list?”

Minseok nods and hands him a capped scroll which the Keeper unfurls slowly, scanning the haze of names then roll calls the first one enumerated from the organization knelt upon their skirts, faces hidden, the one who is masqueraded by feathery coverings representing a nightingale stands up. She traipses with locks atop her head in a bun perfectly, clipped in the clutches of a ruby butterfly. The Prince and his minister guide themselves into a different chamber, to segregate them from the candidate.

Yixing shuts the door, hinders sunlight to permeate and leads the woman onto a small table where a kettle sits in a cluster of two cups meant for them along with a stack of paper. “Take a seat,” he calmly orders then at the same time they fold their legs and rest on the cushion. Across each other, the Keeper starts a conversation comfortably. “Have you heard of the Bazi reading technique?”

“Permission to speak, Keeper.” She asks and Yixing despite that wants to speak normally, person to person, goes along with the conduct through a quick gesticulation. “Yes, I have.” She replies and he tells her to remove her mask already and requests for their tea to be poured. She doffs the accessory as compliance, presents an embodiment of a daffodil instead. Lacing the kettle's handle, whiffs of the green herbs suffuse through the canal as it flows and shapes into the container, steam inhaled by their noses.

“When are your birthdays,” Yixing queries as part of the procedure, “the Prince and you?”

The maiden answers confidently whereas the Keeper presses his lips onto the piece of chinaware for a sip as he listens to her.

“Having these facts, we may now see if you are compatible with him.” Yixing smiles, “Bazi reading is based on the Four Pillars of Destiny.” He props a sheet separately, grabs a brush which he dips onto the ink where with his skilled wrist, he writes the characters assembled like a chart and elaborates each component.

Year Month Day Hour

乙     壬    庚    甲

酉     申    亥    巳

“Unfortunately, you are not his Match.” He declares after analyzing the statistics. “You would make a great wife but not a suitable ruler of a nation. I'm sorry to tell you this.” She rises from her position and stays near the nuptial chambers, disheartened, she confesses the result and abandons the future she could have had.

At each confrontation with another woman Yixing grows weary due to the dullness of it and yet the period of the Matchmaking Ceremony doesn't falter in striding like a turtle. He uses alternative techniques but none of which who have been listed make the cut.

“Are you telling me no one at all would have fitted the Prince?” Minseok asks for confirmation. “They came from honorable families, had faces of angels and were such lovely consorts who served the Palace and the Prince.”

“I'm afraid to say so but the answer is: yes.” Yixing replies. “Most of their readings were positive however if to choose either one of them, you would be risking the Prince and the Kingdom for the possible future that lies in them with his Highness favored the negative side.”

The minister adjusts his headdress and loosens the string which felt like was choking him. “Is there any other way we can find someone meant for him?” He straightens his back, “Can't we ask Lord Yue Lao to give the name of his Soul Mate? Perhaps–”

“That's out of the question.” Yixing interrupts. “He only grants that wish to whomever and whenever he wants. You might even have to wait a millennium if he would be pleased to do so. The Prince needs a Match now.”

“Keeper, I beg of you.” Minseok pleads while attached to Yixing's robes. “The Coronation of his Highness is peaking and the current Emperor has instructed us as a testament to his will that the Prince must have an Empress before assuming the throne.”

“If he's dying and his son is taking the crown, why should it matter that they fulfill his wish?”

Yixing jolts inwardly at the sudden appearance of his Master who vacated his own shrine. He talks over, unseen by Minister Minseok, “I mean, what's the point? He's going to die anyway,” and curses under his breath, “humans and their endless wishes, needs and desires. Till their very death, they want something.”

“I'm truly sorry but there's nothing else I can do.” Yixing tells the official. “But we are willing to hold another Matchmaking Ceremony the next time, after you've gathered other consorts, that is.”

The Prince emerges from the chambers, dissatisfied. By the doors, a head peers and the Prince recognizes the features of the person. He interjects, “Boxian, what is it?”

Boxian approaches warily and bows first before anything else. “I have come with urgent news.”

“Hold on, we are in the middle of a discussion of such urgency as well.” Minseok contradicts ergo the Prince demands it to be spoken, “Continue,” he urges and craning his neck, Boxian gulps.

“The Emperor has died...”

A gasp escapes from the mouths of the Prince and the Minister but Sehun rejoices that their problems have been solved while Yixing from the corner of his eyes glare at him. “The Empress requests to see you.” Minseok adjourns their meeting hurriedly, he tells the Keeper they will have further discussions and pulls the statue-like royalty onto his carriage. As they exit, Boxian bumps into a tall figure who seeks the Keeper and on the spur of the moment when their eyes meet, there is a sense of remembrance but he had to depart so he shrugged the man off.

Sehun discerns the Palace guards patrolling the area as security for the prince create a path for them to pass without trouble. The said man looking for the Keeper appears by their entrance, it is Chanyeol who seems completely flustered, blushing even.

“What is it?” Yixing asks.

He struggles to express himself but finds the words and places them in a coherent sentence. “I think my Soul Mate is near.”

“Yes,” Yixing smiles, “yes, indeed.” Chanyeol claps his hands and thanks the Matchmaker gratefully making Sehun snort. 

Luhan creeps with his back flattened against the jagged and rugged walls. He peeks at a corner, turns his head sideways then focuses again on his accomplice, hugging his knees in a pathetic position because he, Lu Han, the Prince sneaked out and ran away temporarily from the Palace at the hour they expected him to be most active.

“Your Highness, I think this a dangerous idea.” Boxian, one of his beloved servants protests. He embraces his body tighter, too cowardly to be on such a trip that could risk his entire family.

The Prince steps backward and levels his peripheral vision, they talk properly however Boxian is intimidated by the person who stands before him, equipped with no remorse or fright. “Do you think I'm dumb? I know that.” Luhan reads the message Boxian wishes to communicate with his eyes and fans himself, remains stubborn on the abrupt decision.“The Emperor's funeral will suffocate me. I don't want to be cooped up in that prison.”

“But, he is your father.”

“A father for the sake of having a father.”

“Do you have a plan then?”

“Do not rush me.” Luhan hushes. He surveys the sacred grounds and studies the edifice housing the Keeper, light surrounds the area, sustaining the night in flares of candles. For some reason, one of the windows open and a porcelain bowl flies.

“The rice is overcooked!”

“I forgot about it. I apologize, Master!”

Boxian stands, ambles adjacent to the Prince. “I hear two people.”

A door slides open and they jolt for the nearest structure ostensibly stashing crates which contain an assortment of goods especially top notch wine. They obscure themselves and lap around to hide but the person they heard comes in, searching for something in specific. It becomes like a game of hide n' seek where the shrine keeper is unaware that he has started a wild goose chase and the Prince with Boxian evades from getting found.

Unfortunately, the Prince's servant elbows a wine bottle and shatters it on the floor, substance spilled. Alarmed of the sound, the Keeper traces it and shrieks when he perceives the one, he had been looking for has been reduced to a stain on laden. What's more shocking for him is that when he raises his lantern, he shivers from a chill, two people he had been acquainted with sat in awkwardness.

“Milord, they forgot to bring the Prince!” Yixing panics, he huffs at the doorway, yielding to fatigue.

“Why are you running off this late in the evening, Yixing?” Sehun enunciates in irritation.

“They forgot to bring the Prince, Milord. I can't believe how stupid humans are anymore. Out of all the people, they forget to bring the Prince!”

“They didn't forget him. It seems that this is one of the Prince's rebellious acts,” Sehun states, “which I shall not tolerate. Get rid of them. I detest the presence of humans in my abode.”

Then all of a sudden, the Prince and his servant appear, quelling their conversation. The two of them kowtow, pressing their foreheads onto the cement, begging to be kept a secret and for a stay. Because they can't see Sehun nor does he want to be seen, Yixing agrees on his own, out of pity but the Matchmaker throws a tantrum while the eyes of the humans twinkle in appreciation as they refuge into their shrine with their uncleaned feet and catastrophic nature. He takes his walking stick, waves it around in a hazardous manner directed to his regalia, condemning the misjudgment that he almost seems like a hermit, resembling the god of longevity.

He refuses to have them in his shrine, withstanding it, for a split moment they abandon them so he can summon his regalia into the Xingki although Yixing doesn't want to but has no choice, sight blackening and falling onto the hatred he shelters within, “I will kill these people before they drive me insane,” gung-ho for the old times to return where he could slay who he wanted dead.

Outside, both invisible to them, the Prince and the servant boy behind him, rushes for the statue of Yue Lao, where he stands in the middle holding a book and ribbons tied on the ankles of a man and woman. And it bothers Sehun so much because he had been prepared to his blade into their feeble bodies and destroy them, erase them of existence but they pray to him of acknowledgment.

“Thank you, Matchmaker.” He hears crystal clear from the tongue of the Prince.

Sehun drops the sword, completely done being on edge of agitation then utters commands of reversal and storms elsewhere, unable to shed blood tonight. Yixing aids their unwelcome guests to settle in, fixing bedding for them and leaves the door gaping open, letting moonlight invade space, chasing their uneasiness away.

Luhan watches from afar, tucked in his sheets, eyelids drooping and transverse him, Boxian cocoons himself with blankets, curled up like a fetus. The Keeper, Yixing in his bleached sleeping garments treads their yard, slippers tickling mildly the dewy grass until steps reach the miniature bridge, embellishing a pond and interconnecting to the land where a majesty streams upward stemming into long branches with leaves teeter tottering in the soft breeze, where a man whose face sings sadness nested on the tree, nurses a tune, puffing air with his puckered lips.

Under his slender fingers, the leaf conceals his lower facade and comprises a beat, whistling.

Luhan observes them, the whole picture, Keeper Yixing sitting idly on the arch of the bridge, crossing his legs and listening to the song which the man continues to play. The notes melt him so sleep pulls a blitzkrieg on him but he tries and tries to stay awake.